


Of Bullets and Bone

by Foureyed_Pufferfish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Humanformers, M/M, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foureyed_Pufferfish/pseuds/Foureyed_Pufferfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, what damage bullets can do to bone and soul alike.</p><p>Rung confronts his shooter, and is forced to face the reality of his own mental health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Humanformers AU where Whirl is the shooter, not Fort Max.
> 
> This was originally written for a class on narrative literature. As such, if you find any names that are normal human names and not alien robot names, let me know and I'll fix it as quick as I can.

“Good morning, Whirl.” The tall, black haired man stepped hesitantly into the office, his single eye darting over the patterns on the ornate rug covering the floor. He wrung his hands, slender fingers brushing over the scabs on his knuckles.

Rung looked up from the transfer form he'd been filling out. He stood and found a seat in one of the offices' roomy lounge chairs. “Come sit down. We can talk some.” He beckoned the other over to the large couch and smiled softly when the other closed the door and took a seat. Whirl hesitated further, avoiding making eye contact with the smaller man.

“Hey-a, Doc,” He mumbled at last. Rung's reassuring smile broadened. 

“I'm glad to see you again, Whirl.” Rung's tone was far too cheery for how tense his small form was. “Though I really must insist that you call me Rung. I'm not your doctor anymore, and you're not here in any professional capacity. We're just two friends talking.”

Whirl smiled back, the movement of his face forced and uncomfortable. The strings tucked behind his ears pulled at his skin as the white medical eye patch covering his empty eye socket settled with the movement. He reached up to adjust it. “Then why your office?”

Rung shrugged. “Maximus insisted.” His eyes briefly darted to the security camera mounted over the door. It did not record audio, but the red light in the corner made it clear the device was on. It was a security precaution Rung felt was unnecessary. What had happened between his former patient and himself a year prior had been a one time anomaly. Legally, Whirl' fit was labeled as a psychotic episode, though mostly at Rung's insistence. 

Whirl offered no response. 

“How have you been?” Rung asked, when the silence stretched past the minute mark.

Whirl shrugged, boney shoulders hunching. “Fine, I guess.” 

“You don't sound convinced.” Rung crossed his arms over his chest. 

Whirl wrung his hands together, sniffing loudly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Really."

Rung hummed, glancing down at his hands. "I spoke to Ratchet a while back. He said you've been having trouble sleeping." 

The taller man shrugged, burrowing his hands in between his knees to hide the scabs. "He prescribed some pills. They work fine."

The therapist sighed, hand clenching imperceptibly tighter. "Would you like to talk about why you can't sleep? As friends, I mean."

It was impossible to miss the way Whirl's eye darted up to the pale scar marring the left side of Rung's forehead. The therapist had made a feeble attempt to hide it by sweeping what short red hair he had over the area. The fuzzy locks covered where his hairline was jagged and helped disguise the lack of hair in a large patch on the back of his head. It did nothing to hide the indent in his skull. It was amazing both how well the human body could heal itself and how such as small piece of metal could cause such damage. 

"Why are we doing this, Doc?" Whirl said at last. 

Rung blinked. "You told Ratchet you'd like to see me."

"God dammit, not that!" Whirl slammed a hand against the couch arm. Rung flinched, eyes clenching shut. Whirl forced himself to calm, shoulder slumping and head bowed. 

The smaller man took a deep breath before reopening his eyes. "What happened to your hands, Whirl?" The black haired man was silent, gaze never leaving the floor. "I was under the impression you wanted to talk to me," Rung explained.

Whirl shook his head, chuckling lowly. The sound was not a happy one. "Didn't think you'd say yes."

Rung drew in a deep breath, held it, letting himself rest with his eyes closed, and then let out a measured exhalation. "I can't be your therapist anymore. Not after what you did. It wouldn't work out well for either of us. But I still want you to heal."

Whirl finally glanced up, though he focused instead on the tip of the other's freckled nose. The skin was ever so slightly pink with sunburn. "Even if I'm a danger to you."

Rung pushed at the cushion at his back, wrangling it back into place. "It's been a year, Whirl. I know we haven't talked about what happened, but I don't think you'll hurt me." 

Whirl rolled his eye. "Right."

Head tilting slightly to one side, Rung asked "Do you want to hurt me?"

Eyes widening, Whirl took a moment to answer. "You just said that you can't be my therapist. Don't start on that psycho-analyzing bullshit."

Cowed, Rung dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I"m not angry with you, if that's what you want to hear."

Whirl shook his head, eye patch itching over his skin. "Not really."

"What is it you want, Whirl?" The question was said more gently than those words should have made possible.

The other shook his head.

"Do you want me to be angry with you?" 

Another shrug.

"Whirl, I can't help unless you tell me what's wrong." He'd said the same line every morning for almost three years back when Whirl had been his patient. It had never stuck.

"You're not supposed to help me anymore." Whirl stood, towering over the seated therapist. "You're supposed to yell at me, to never want to see me again. Why are you being so nice?"

Rung pressed into his seat as if trying to convince the chair to consume him. He took small, steadying breaths. "I'm not mad at you, Whirl. I'm hurt by what happened, but I'm not mad at you. I've always said that we need to forgive in order to move on."

Whirl sat heavily, limply falling into the couch. "And you forgive me?"

Rung opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again. He simply breathed for a long moment. “I would be a hypocrite if I did not.”

Whirl huffed a breathy laugh. “We're all hypocrite's, Doc.” He stood, towering over Rung as he sidled past him to reach the door. “Maybe it's time you let yourself be one too.”

…

One Year Prior

"Morning, Eyebrows."

Rung glanced up from the manila folder he'd been organizing. Maximus smiled at him from the doorway of his small office. A grin bloomed across Rung's face as well. "Good morning, Max."

The warden found himself a comfortable spot on the couch backed up against one wall. One leg crossed over the other, he pulled out his phone to scroll through the day's calender. "You're not working late tonight, are you?"

Rung shook his head, orange hair ticking at his freckled forehead. He really needed a trim. "Red Alert is my last patient today, since Swerve was transferred."

Max hummed. "And how is Red doing?"

Rung put down the form he'd been filling out with a huff. "Is that why you're stopping in Max?"

The larger man dropped his phone to his lap. "We're looking at removing him from involuntary admission. His behavior's been nothing but excellent for the past two months. Keeping him around the other offenders might not be the best thing for him at this point."

"You say 'offenders' like they're murderers, Max," Rung sighed, folding his hands into his lap in a gesture Max was well familiar with. "My patients are mentally unstable, not criminals. None are high offenders. This is a psychiatric hospital, not a prison. And I don't know that release is the best option for Red Alert. We had him on suicide watch not even three months ago."

Max ran a hand along his thigh, smoothing out a fold in his dress pants. "If you think he's not mentally stable enough-"

The door swung open, hitting the far wall with a bang. The archway held a familiar figure: a tall, lean man. His one eye narrowed in on Rung instantly, the muscles behind the missing eye twitching in the empty socket. His eye patch hung loosely from one ear. 

"Doc," he sounded relieved. "Rung, pal, old buddy, you gotta tell them I've been good."

Rung's brow furrowed, tensing in his seat. "Whirl-"

The other held up a hand cutting him off. "No, no, don't placate me. I knew you were going to. I need my therapist's support for this. Tell 'em I've been good. I have, haven't I?" His gaze snapped to Maximus, as if just then noticing his presence. "He'll tell you, Sir. There's no reason to send me back to prison. I've been good." 

Max made to stand. A flash of silver and black and Whirl held a gun.

"Sit back down!" Whirl' voice boomed in the small office, echoing off plaster walls. 

Max held his hands up slowly, careful not to startle the man. "Whirl," he said, voice even and level. "This isn't the way to stay out of prison. Put the gun down, and we can talk about this."

"No, it's not going to go that way. The court said I could stay here instead as long as I was good." The gun never wavered from where it was aimed directly between Max's temples. Whirl was a good shot. He'd fought as a marksman in three tours before finding himself in front of a military tribunal for attempting to kill a fellow officer. His aim had suffered little from the loss of his right eye. "Rung's going to tell you how well I've been doing, and then you're going to make sure I stay out of prison."

“Now, Whirl,” Rung held his hands up in a mimic of his husband's position, trying to come off as nonthreatening as possible. “Please put the gun down. I've heard no talk of sending you back to prison. There's no grounds for it.”

Whirl rolled his one remaining eye. “Oh gee, Doc. That's so reassuring.” 

“You've just threatened your warden and your therapist with a gun, Whirl,” Max spoke up, focus flicking between the gun in Whirl' hands and Rung fidgeting nervously in his seat. “If you put it down now we might be able to fix this. But not if you don't work with us.”

The gun dipped for a moment before coming back up, this time pointed squarely at Rung. “Just keep me out of prison, and everything will be okay.”

"Whirl," Rung breathed, voice now shaking. "I'm sorry, there's nothing I can-" 

The shot echoed through the small room, ringing off the walls. His breath froze in his lungs and his back pressed hard against the wood of the chair. His vision consumed by the flash of the gunpowder, Rung's eyes stared blankly ahead. Heat flash at the left side of his forehead, searing flesh and hair alike. It didn't hurt. Not yet, anyway. Max must have screamed, but all he could hear was the sound of bullet scraping skull.


	2. Bonus Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of extra fluff between Max and Rung that got deleted from the main story.

His head hurt. It usually did by this time of night and today was no exception. But the throbbing was worse than normal, concentrated at the back of his eyes and between his ears, where it had no business being. Rung reached up and fingered the scar on his forehead. It was hardly noticeable, given the nature of the injury. His pale skin and red hair hid well where the bullet had scrapped at his skull. The back on his head had not gotten off so lightly. There were a few patches where it was unlikely that he'd ever have hair again. But even still, he'd been lucky. It was a miracle none of the shards of bone from his skull had impacted his exposed brain. A scar, some hair loss, and frequent head aches were the only remnant of his ordeal.

“Heading home early, Rung?” The front desk security guard offered him a polite smile. The therapist returned the gesture, even if it was somewhat forced. 

“I'll finish these reports at home,” He offered, “Not too keen on being here at night.”

The other man wave him off, eyes flickering to the subtle indent in the side of Rung's forehead. “Can't say I blame you. Have a good night.”

“Night,” Rung mumbled back, waving around the stack of paperwork tucked under his arm. At least the rain had cleared up some.

By the time Rung's car rumbled into the driveway, the headache had intensified, agitated by the rumble of the road. He pulled the trashcan out to the curb before stepping inside to where the warm smell of potatoes and honey baked ham wafted from the kitchen. 

The dog came crashing around the corner, claws slapping on the freshly cleaned tile, at the sound of the coat closest creaking open. Rung held his mostly empty coffee mug up away from the jumping mutt. Eventually the dog gave up it's enthusiastic greeting and trotted back to his usual spot just far enough out of the kitchen that he would not be shooed off.

“Evening!” Max called from the kitchen. “Dinner's almost done. Can you set the table?” Rung rounded the corner, finding Max standing over a pan of baked vegetables. In silence he pulled two sets of silverware from the drawer and sat down. Max set a plate of hot food in front of him with an expectant smile. He sat heavily and stared on his own meal, evidently hungry. Rung glanced down at his dinner. Gravy dripped down the potatoes onto a slice of ham, already partly congealed. Max always used too much. He poked at the vegetables piled neatly of to the side but didn't raise the fork to his mouth. Max paused, watching him.

“You okay, Eyebrows?” He asked, “I didn't over cook them, did I?”

Rung glanced up at his husband and shook his head. “No, I'm just... I'm not feeling very well.” He stood, pushing his plate away. “I think I'm going to go lie down for a while.”

Max's brow drew tight in concern. It was quick, but Rung caught the dart of his eyes to his forehead. “Okay,” Max breathed, “Let me know if you need anything.” Rung waved the comment off and gave what he hopped was a reassuring smile. 

The bedroom was cold, the open window letting in the evening chill. He slid the window closed and flicked on the space heater before shrugging off his pants and work shirt, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt. Rung didn't bother pulling back the comforter, instead simply laying on top of the made bed. He pulled the quilt at the end of the bed up over him and curled into himself.

The headache was so strong now that light pulsed behind his eyelids and the blood rushing through his ears pounded in his head. His breath shook with every exhalation. Pain medication, the stronger prescription the doctor gave him, would have eased the pain greatly but Rung simply felt too exhausted to get up to fetch it.

A warm touch to his shoulder startled the psychologist. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes hooded and expression generally miserable. Belatedly, he realized he still had his glasses on.

Maximus smiled sadly at him. In on hand he held a mug of hot tea and Rung's medication in the other. He placed the pill bottle on the night stand and helped the smaller man sit up, propping him up with one of the large decorative pillows.

“Thought you might want some tea.” Max handed him the steaming mug, making sure Rung had a good grip before letting go. The larger man fished two pills from the bottle on the nightstand, pressing them into Rung's hand. “I know you don't like them, but they'll help.” Max's voice was barely above a whisper.

Rung sighed through his nose before throwing the pills back with a mouthful of hot tea. The honey lemon tea was just cool enough that it didn't burn his mouth. “Could you close the blinds?”

Max smiled and nodded. The light vanished with the snick of the blinds sliding shut, not dark, but enough to ease the pressure behind Rung's eyes. He leaned heavily into the pillow at his back, allowing Max to wrangle the blankets out from under him and back up over his legs. The warden slipped in beside him, pulling Rung against his side and curling an arm about his shoulders. 

Rung sighed, burying nose in the soft cotton of Maximus' jacket. It still smelled of detergent and cologne. "I hate this," he mumbled. 

Max glanced down at his partner, expression saddened. "The doctor said the migraines should stop after a few months."

Rung shook his head, burrowing deeper into Max's shoulder. "I'm so scared, Max."

Fort Max eased the half full mug of tea from his clenched fingers, placing it on the nightstand, beside the pain pills. He ran gentle fingers though Rung's hair, deliberately avoiding the lump of scars on the left side of his scalp. Rung sighed into the familiar contact. "Maybe it's time to get help."

Rung sat quietly, deliberately slowing his breathing and focusing on the lessening headache. He wrapped a hand about Max's arm, as if holding the larger man in place. The warden never stopped his reassuring strokes to Rung's head. His hair had grown back well, even if it wasn't as long as it used to be. Rung had looked older with a bald head. "There's no shame in talking to someone, Rung. You of all people should know that."

"I've never been the patient," Rung mumbled, voice muffled further by his partner's shoulder.

Max chuckled lightly, cupping the small of Rung's back with his free hand. "First time for everything, eyebrows."

The therapist shook off the reply with a huff. "Will you go with me?" Rung asked, "to work tomorrow. I know you typically don't go in until later..."

"I don't mind," Max answered, smiling down at the therapist. "Been meaning to do a surprise inspection, anyway." Rung nodded, mumbling a thank you. "Is it the office that's scaring you?"

Rung drew in a long breath, letting it go slowly. The headache was finally at a manageable level, leaving only drowsiness in its wake, a side effect of the pain pills that Rung loathed. "It feels too small," he whispered, "I know it's not even the same office but I keep seeing stains on the wall." He felt Max flinch minutely against him, cringing back from the memory.

The warden sighed. "I'm going to request a transfer for you."

Rung sat up, staring wide eyed at his husband. "Max, I have patients. I can't just leave. And were would I transfer to anyway?"

Maximus let the hand that had been stroking Rung's head drop to his lap. "There's that new facility up north. The drive is a little longer, but you can take the train if you don't feel well and its out of the city. It's not too far."

Rung's mouth clenched into a concerned line. "And what about my patients, Max?"

The warden leaned over to the side to retrieve the mug of tea, grateful that it was still warm. "Finish this. I know those pills make you thirsty." Rung took the mug but did not drink any, still looking questioningly at his partner. "They'll be assigned a new therapist. People leave the facility frequently. There's procedures in place.”

The small man nodded, sipping at the now cold drink in his hand. “Give me a month,” he mumbled, gaze focused on nothing. “I'll go see a therapist. If I still can't handle the office after a month, then I'll request a transfer.” 

Max shook his head, but relented. “One month.” Rung placed the now empty mug on the nightstand, and allowed himself to be pulled into a hug. Max stroked over the scar on his partner's forehead, examining it by touch. It always amazed him how smooth the skin there was. “I promised the neighbors I'd take a look at their modem. You'll be alright on your own for a bit?”

Rung nodded, pulling away from the others hold. “I'm just going to sleep off these pills.” 

Max chuckled at the way he squirmed into the blankets, pulling the quilt up to his nose. The warden collected the dirty mug and gave Rung one last parting smile. “Night, Eyebrows.”


End file.
